MOSTYN ENTERTAINS A GUEST.
For a few moments they stood, the man in the gallery, the girl in the
hall, staring at each other in petrified astonishment. Neither the
one nor the other seemed capable of moving.
It was the girl who recovered herself first and broke the silence.
She was evidently possessed of a fine spirit. "Who are you?" she
cried, her voice faltering a little, but raised sufficiently for him
to distinguish what she said. "Who are you, and how dare you come
here?"
This was good, considering that it was Mostyn's own house, and the
incongruity of the question restored him to his normal power of
reflection. It was Rada who was the trespasser, not he; there was
evidently a misunderstanding upon both sides, a misunderstanding that
must be explained away; but it was very awkward that it should be
Rada Armitage of all persons in the world with whom he must
parley--Rada, his pet aversion.
He drew close to the banisters, leaning over so as to make his voice
quite audible; even to himself it sounded hoarse and strained,
echoing through the emptiness of the house. "My name is Mostyn
Clithero," he said, "and I have every right to be here. We have met
before, Miss Armitage. But please wait, and I will come down to
you." He spoke the last words rather hurriedly, having some fear in
his mind that she might run away, make her escape by the front door
before he could reach her side.
This, however, she did not seem at all disposed to do. Instead, she
broke out into a soft laugh--a laugh that was musical in tone, but
which grated upon Mostyn's ears, for it reminded him of her attitude
towards him upon Derby day. She had remembered him, then, as soon as
he had mentioned his name, and the recollection was one to arouse her
laughter.
Mostyn set his teeth firmly, and descended the broken and rickety
staircase with all the dignity that he could muster.
Rada was still standing beside the organ. She had picked up the
fallen music-stool and replaced it in position. She stood almost
directly under the over-hanging lamp, a lamp shaded in red, which
added its lustre to the rich colouring of her face. An unruly lock
of black hair hung over her forehead, and she was still smiling as
Mostyn approached her--smiling, her lips parted over a row of white,
even teeth. She had quite recovered her self-possession, whereas
Mostyn felt that he was trembling, partly with nervousness and partly
with indignation.
"I thought you were Willis, the gardener, when I first saw you up
there in the gallery, and had got over my surprise. You made me
jump, you know, because I imagined I was all alone in the house."
She was quite taking command of the situation. "So you are Mr.
Mostyn Clithero," she went on. "I remember you quite well, though
what you are doing in Partinborough Grange at this time of night is a
mystery to me."
She had waited till Mostyn had reached the bottom of the stairs
before speaking; now she seated herself upon the music-stool, leaning
an elbow upon a corner of the organ, staring Mostyn fully in the
face, with a great assumption of ease and self-confidence.
"Perhaps you will explain yourself," she added, when he reached her
side.
Mostyn felt himself in a ridiculous position. It was he who was
being called upon to give an explanation, and yet Rada Armitage was
so palpably the intruder, the one who should be summoned to explain.
"I am here," he faltered, almost apologetically, "because the house
is mine, and I have to-day come down from London to take possession
of it."
"Partinborough Grange yours?" Rada had ceased to smile, but she was
in no way disconcerted. "How can that be? The Grange belonged to
Mr. Royce. He was no relation of yours, was he?"
"He left me the house by will," Mostyn explained; "that is the simple
truth. And now, Miss Armitage----"
He was about to ask her to account for her presence, but she
interrupted him sharply. "And how dared you call me by my Christian
name just now? I don't think I have allowed you that privilege!"
She did not speak as though she were annoyed. In spite of the
sharpness of her tone there was a curious laughing light in her eyes,
a half-mocking expression, which Mostyn could not understand, though
he felt that he was blushing scarlet, and was proportionately angry
with himself.
Why should he have called her Rada? Why had he, ever since that day
upon the coach, thought of her by that name? The word had escaped
him involuntarily, and no doubt the girl had every right to be
indignant.
"I beg your pardon," he said humbly. "I must apologise for that. It
was in the surprise of the moment----"
"I see." Her eyes were still sparkling, and she was palpably
enjoying Mostyn's discomfiture as well as the whole situation. She
stretched out her hand, a daintily-fashioned hand with small, cool
fingers. "I'll forgive you, Mr. Clithero, and I suppose it is I who
must humbly ask your pardon for my intrusion. Awfully
unconventional, isn't it? But I'm not a lady burglar come after the
silver--there is none, by the way--or anything of that sort. I'm
quite a commonplace little person, really."
Mostyn took the girl's hand in his and held it, perhaps a little
longer than he needed. "You're not commonplace," he faltered
awkwardly; "you're anything but that. You're more like a sprite or a
pixie."
It was curious how she attracted him, and yet he was quite sure she
was mocking him all the time, laughing at him in her heart. He would
have liked to have refused her hand, to have spoken formally, to have
shown her that he was not the sort of man to be made mock of: and yet
all these impulses were put aside by that extraordinary fascination
which she had over him, and for which he could not account, the
fascination which had made him think of her so often during the last
week, and which had brought her Christian name to his lips in the
first moment of surprise. He was sure that he hated her--and yet he
had held her hand longer than he need have done, and perhaps with
firmer grip than was necessary.
The worst of it was that Rada seemed to understand this, to have the
knowledge of her power: she would only laugh at him all the more.
"Call me a mischievous imp," she retorted, brushing back the
recalcitrant curl, "if that's what you mean. Don't be shy, Mr.
Clithero. After that I'll explain why I'm here, and then go."
Of course she must go. What else could be suggested? That is what
Mostyn thought, yet when he came to speak he gave expression to a
very different sentiment. "I--I'm sure I don't know why you are
here, Miss Armitage," he faltered; "but if you really meant to
stay--well, I can clear out, you know, for to-night anyway. I
believe there's an inn at Partinborough."
She laughed musically. "Well, we'll see. But let's go into the
drawing-room to talk: it's more cosy there, and I can make myself
comfortable in my favourite chair. This hall's always full of
shadows, and we look like a pair of ghosts. Then there are the roses
in the drawing-room that I put there myself this morning." She spoke
as though she were the hostess, and with complete self-possession.
It was she who led the way and Mostyn who followed, still bewildered,
and at war with himself.
So there was no doubt about it now; it was Rada who had filled those
vases with flowers, and who had evidently occupied the room which he
had selected for his own. But why on earth had Willis not given some
explanation?
They entered the drawing-room, and Rada installed herself in one of
the comfortable chintz-covered arm chairs. She was seated with her
back to the unshuttered window, through which the moon, fully risen
by now, could be seen riding in a cloudless and star-sprinkled sky.
At that moment a rumble of carriage wheels made itself heard along
the drive.
"What's that?" queried Rada, looking round sharply.
"It's the Willis's driving back to their cottage," said Mostyn
shortly. "Their son met with an accident, and they had to bring him
home. Since you seem to be a regular visitor here, Miss Armitage, I
cannot understand why Willis said nothing to me about you." As he
spoke the dog-cart with its three occupants passed the window and
disappeared, the noise of wheels gradually dying away in the distance.
"I am never here for more than one night at a time," explained Rada,
"and I suppose, since I slept here last night, that Mr. Willis did
not expect me to turn up again. I was about the garden all the
morning, and wondered what had become of him. I put the roses in the
vases, but I suppose he thought they were yesterday's."
"I see." Mostyn slowly nodded his head. He had seated himself
facing the girl, and he could not withdraw his eyes from her face.
How bewitchingly elf-like she looked, as she sat there with the light
of the moon shining upon her--for the room was but dimly lit by the
shaded lamps at the far end. Yes, elf-like was the word, or perhaps
Rada was even more correct in describing herself as an imp. She had
taken off her flower-bedecked hat, and her black, glistening curls
framed a face that seemed to glow with life and mischief.
"It's all very simple," she went on. "You see, Mr. Clithero, we
live, my father and I, not very far from here. It's only a couple of
miles across the fields, though a bit longer by road. Barton Mill is
the name of the place; it was once the old mill-house, but the mill's
been disused for years. We are not well off, and my father got the
house for next to nothing."
Rada bit her lip, as though her explanation was not as easy as she
had thought, then continued: "My father's a queer-tempered man, and I
suppose I'm rather an impossible person myself at times. We are apt
to have little quarrels." She flushed slightly, a very unusual thing
with Rada, as she made the admission. "When there's any little
difference between us," she went on, "I run away, and instal myself
here for twenty-four hours or so; then, when I go home things are all
right again. I'm great friends with Mr. and Mrs. Willis, and they
are accustomed to have me about the place."
Mostyn, from his own experience with Captain Armitage, could easily
appreciate the discomforts of the girl's home. Rada's father was a
drunkard--there was no other word for it--and it was easy to imagine
that there were times when he would become quite unbearable: it stood
to reason that the girl must sometimes have a hard time of it.
"I'm quite a wild creature when I'm in the country, you see, Mr.
Clithero," Rada resumed; "not at all the same girl whom you saw in
London playing at gentility." She was speaking earnestly now, the
mockery of her manner put aside. This was an extraordinary
characteristic of Rada's, and one that Mostyn had already noticed.
She would pass quickly from mood to mood; she was just as capricious
as an April day.
She sighed, and glanced round the room. "I have almost come to look
upon everything here as my own," she said, "and I shall feel having
to be shut out in the future."
Mostyn leant forward, speaking eagerly, and again expressing himself
with words that he had no intention of saying. "I hope you will come
here as often as you like, Miss Armitage. I am glad to know that we
are such near neighbours. I shall probably live here, because I want
to be near the training stables. I am going in for racing," he added
impulsively.
Once more she broke out into musical laughter, laughter which had the
ring of derision in it. Mostyn drew himself up stiffly; the
momentary spell which had fallen upon him was broken.
"You are going in for racing, Mr. Clithero--you!" There was painful
emphasis upon the pronoun. "Do you mean to say that you've taken up
my challenge of the other day seriously? You are going to win the
Derby in five years' time? Forgive me laughing, but really, I'm only
a girl, but I'll back myself to win the Derby before you, and with
some hope of success."
She spoke without measuring her words, and perhaps without the
intention of giving offence. "Are you going to enter a horse for the
Waterloo Cup too?" she queried; this amid peals of soft but impudent
laughter.
Mostyn drew himself up, but the worst of it was, that in the presence
of this girl, he could make such a poor show of dignity. He could
not even restrain himself from that absurd habit of blushing. "I
made a fool of myself that day, I know," he said heatedly, "but it
isn't generous of you to recall it; it isn't as if you knew all the
circumstances--I----" He broke off suddenly, staring fixedly at the
window before him.
Rada saw that her words had stung and wounded. She was not spiteful
at heart, though despite herself her tongue would run away with her.
She had no dislike for Mostyn; on the contrary, she had told herself
that day upon the coach that he was quite a good-looking boy, and
that she would have preferred his company to that of young
Caldershot, who was, after all, nothing but an empty-headed fop,
whose conversation was all about himself. Rada had quite decided in
her own mind that Mostyn was to be her cavalier that day, and she had
been more than a little piqued at his lack of attention, which
perhaps accounted for the snubbing he had received.
"Don't be cross," she began, a little conscience-stricken. "I didn't
mean----" Suddenly she realised the fixity of his gaze upon the
window. "What are you staring at?" she asked, turning her head and
following the direction of his eyes.
Mostyn sprang from his chair, and without answering her strode across
to the window, throwing it open, and gazing out into the night. He
had imagined, just as he was replying to Rada, that he had caught
sight of a face, the face of a man, staring in at the window--a face
flattened against the glass, appearing through it distorted,
malignant, and hideous.
He had been so occupied with his own sense of wrong that it had been
a few moments before he had actually realised the face. The ivy and
creepers grew thick about the window, and as he stared vacantly he
had thought that what he saw was merely due to the peculiar form
taken by an overhanging spray of ivy. But, as he looked, the face
had taken shape; he had seen a pair of glistening eyes, a flattened
nose and an ugly, grinning mouth. It was then that he sprang up and
made his sudden dart to the window.
But when he opened it and stepped out upon the soft grass there was
no one to be seen. He looked up and down the road; he took a few
steps in either direction, then told himself that he must have been
deceived: it was the ivy, after all, which had caused the delusion.
He stepped back into the drawing-room, closing the window after him
and attempting to put up the shutters, which had evidently not been
touched for years.
"What was it?" asked Rada, who had risen and was standing by his side.
He told her. "I thought I saw a face--the face of a man," he said.
"What was he like?" Rada looked concerned, almost frightened.
"I don't know; I can't describe him, for the face was contorted by
the glass. But it was all an absurd mistake of mine, and there
wasn't anything there really, but just the ivy."
"I wonder." Rada's voice shook. "This is a lonely place." She
glanced at a little gold watch which she wore. "It is nearly ten
o'clock," she went on nervously, "and we have been sitting here
talking without making up our minds what we are going to do."
"Let me go to the inn," Mostyn said; then he glanced doubtfully at
the girl, "though I don't think it's right that you should stay in a
lonely house like this all by yourself," he added.
"I've done so many times before." The girl spoke with some defiance;
then her eyes turned nervously in the direction of the window, before
which Mostyn was vainly struggling to fix the shutters. "But I don't
know that I care to to-night," she added, the look of challenge
fading from her eyes with one of those rapid changes peculiar to her.
"I--I think I'm frightened."
Indeed she looked frightened, more frightened, perhaps, than the
occasion demanded, and it was quite useless for Mostyn to try and
argue that what he had seen was in reality nothing more than a
cluster of ivy.
"You must walk with me to the Willis's cottage," she said. "We know
that they have returned, and I shall be quite safe there." Her eyes
were timorous, and she trembled as she stood by his side. It was as
though she was conscious of some personal danger, of a threat, a
menace, to herself. All Mostyn's anger faded away.
And so it was arranged. Rada was restless and nervous, unable to
talk on any topic whatever, quite incapable of listening to the
explanation which Mostyn had desired to make as to his taking up
racing. He would have liked to have told her, too, about Castor, and
the offer which had been made to him by Captain Armitage. It seemed
only fair to do so, for he had an idea that she might not approve of
the captain's decision to sell his horse. Not that Mostyn would
allow this to affect him, so he told himself. He had been challenged
by Rada to a sort of contest, a challenge repeated that day, and he
could use any tactics he chose, as long as they were straight and
above-board.
But she gave him no opportunity to speak. She hurried him down the
broad drive, a road which was as yet strange to him, and which, like
the one that he had already traversed, skirted the lawn and then
plunged into the wood, leading direct to the Willis's cottage, which
was on the further boundary of the estate.
As they stepped rapidly among the trees, she kept turning her head to
the right and the left. "What's that?" she would say, and then,
gripping his arm with real alarm, "I'm sure I heard footsteps
following us; there's someone hiding in the wood!"
Perhaps Mostyn caught the infection of her nervousness; at any rate,
there were moments when he, too, heard, or imagined he heard, the
sound of the cracking of dry wood, as if the twigs were being broken
under a heavy heel. Once he halted and cried out, "Who's there?" but
there was no reply, and he comforted his trembling little companion
with the assurance that they were both in safety.
It was he who was self-possessed now, for they stood in a different
relation to each other. He was the man, and Rada was just a
sensitive, frightened girl, who needed his support and protection.
That walk through the wood, small event as it was, was not without
its effect upon Mostyn's subsequent relations with Rada.
Whether they were being followed or not, they reached the gardener's
cottage in safety, and presently the door was opened to them by Mrs.
Willis herself, a homely, comfortable woman with an engaging smile.
Rada quickly explained her wish to stay at the cottage; then she
turned to Mostyn, and once more extended her hand. "Thank you for
bringing me," she murmured, "and if I said things to make you cross,
please forgive me." She was altogether charming at that moment, and
once more the touch of her fingers sent a thrill through Mostyn's
whole being.
"Shall I see you to-morrow?" he asked hastily.
"I don't know." She shrugged her shoulders. "I may go back home, I
may not; I always act on impulse." She was smiling now, secure in
the company of the gardener's wife. Presently, with a nod and a
smile, she disappeared into the cottage, and Mostyn was left to make
his way back to the Grange alone.
This time there was no sound in the wood on either side of him, and
he was quite certain that his footsteps were not dogged. It must
have been imagination, after all.
He thought of Rada as he walked. "What a witch she is," he muttered,
"and how she fascinates me! Do I hate her, I wonder, or----" He did
not finish the phrase, perhaps because he could not answer the
question.